


Silence Is Broken

by ComeAlongPond14



Series: teen!Lock verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/ComeAlongPond14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen!lock AU one-shot...John Watson's roommate at his new school is intelligent, beautiful, popular...and selectively mute. Sherlock Holmes does not speak a word, and yet the two boys tumble into friendship and then love, finding mutual courage and healing along the way.</p><p>WARNINGS: Reference to past rape/trauma, and PTSD-induced silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence Is Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This was SO nearly a Klaine story. I read a fic with Kurt being selectively mute and couldn't shake the image of Sherlock being that way, because his smartass mouth would have gotten him into trouble as a kid. So this happened.
> 
> Title was originally in Spanish, because as usual I was inspired by music, in this case "Silencio" by Nelly Furtado. But that was when the title was a direct line from the song. So this works better in English, I imagine.
> 
> Still working on Sparks Fly! No worries! This was boredom and a bad day!

John Watson wasn’t sure what to say about his roommate.

He had transferred to the Baker Academy for Boys because his parents had wanted him to learn a little more about leadership and responsibility, and less about football and socializing, like it was at his old school. Not that John minded; he had always been a bit on the serious side, even if he was only seventeen, and he was happy to attend a school where it wasn’t frowned upon to enjoy academics.

But it was a little difficult to avoid distractions.

Distractions like as the fact that he still hadn’t found the nerve to come out to his parents, and now he was in an all boys’ boarding school in the countryside. That was a bit hard to handle--no pun intended. Distractions like the fact that Baker Academy had a zero-tolerance harassment policy, so there was quite a handful of out-of-the-closet young men, and John wasn’t finding it particularly easy to avoid outing himself simply for the camaraderie.

And most diverting of all...distractions like the boy whose room he’d been led to when he moved in, told by a hassled RA that this was his roommate, and left with.

The first time he’d met Sherlock Holmes, John had never felt so out of his depth. The other boy--tall, dark-haired and oh God, those eyes, those gorgeous glasz-colored eyes--skin like bloody snow and lips so pale and kissable that John had swayed on the spot--simply gazed at him from where he sat cross-legged on his bed, a book open across his knees. His face was expressionless but not closed-off; he seemed to have sized John up already, and was now simply waiting for his first move.

John had opted for cautious courtesy, on the assumption that this beautiful boy could not possibly be gay as well. Crossing the room, he offered his hand with a cheerful, “Hello! I’m John, John Watson.”

The other boy had blinked at him surreally, as though unsure if John was real. Then, slowly, he’d picked up a device that was roughly the size of a paperback novel--but it was a keyboard, with a very narrow screen across the top like a massive calculator, and a panel of buttons down the side that said basic terms like “yes,” “no,” “please” and “thank you.”

John had stood uncertainly, oddly mesmerized by the sight of those long, pale fingers, which flowed across the keys effortlessly. Then he hit a green button at the top, and a mechanical voice spoke from the device: [ **My name is Sherlock Holmes.]**

* * *

It took roughly a day for John to fully process the situation; Sherlock could speak, was in no way physically injured or deformed in any way that prevented it--but he simply didn’t. The speech computer was always on him, and no matter the context, if he needed to speak, he typed his words, with stunning speed and accuracy, and the little voice spoke for him.

At first it made John’s hair stand on end to hear it chirping away at people--Sherlock was in no way ignorant, or short on words, and the computer was almost always in his hands, ready for use. But though his eyes were alert and attentive, his face expressive and his body language animated, not a single sound came from his mouth. He even laughed silently: his eyes would lighten, his face breaking into a broad grin, but the only sound to escape him was perhaps a harsher exhalation of air.

But more importantly, it only took that one day for John to accept Sherlock’s silence. He often heard their classmates tease the mute boy affectionately, urging him to talk, insisting that they wanted to hear his voice--John gathered that Sherlock had never spoken, in all the three years he’d been attending Baker Academy.

John never once asked. And somehow, Sherlock seemed to know that he never would. John had no idea how, but the two boys were able to fall into a companionable routine, and then they were friends.

It was Sherlock who helped him conquer his fears first, to John’s surprise.

One evening they sat in their room, each doing their homework, nodding along with the music that their neighbor was blaring a little too loudly, even for a Friday night.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was frowning pensively at the biology textbook he’d been taking notes from. It was impossible not to find the silent boy attractive--no matter what he was doing, he carried himself with a sort of reserved grace that made John long to...well, to hold him. To erase whatever it was that had left him feeling broken, and to be his support.

It was a new feeling for John. Sure, he’d had crushes before. But he’d never felt quite so...protective of someone.

Sherlock suddenly raised his eyes, catching John staring. He blushed guiltily, but Sherlock didn’t seem upset. His hand went to the speech computer--which he’d informed John, via its odd little mechanic voice, was named Jarvis ([Yes,] the robotic voice deadpanned as John had cracked up, [Even I enjoy some pop culture.] This had led to an Iron Man marathon, during which John had to pretend not to find Robert Downey Jr. sexy)--and he typed something swiftly, still not looking away from John.

**[You’ve been looking at me every few minutes. Is something wrong?]**

John chuckled, setting his textbooks aside with a self-conscious shrug. “No,” he said softly, smiling at Sherlock reassuringly. “I just...I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

A slight frown, and then Sherlock nodded. John saw the flash of wariness, knew that Sherlock was assuming that their peace was breaking, and that now even John was going to try and make him speak.

“In physical terms only--just talking about the body, nothing to do with mind or trauma or anything--you can, technically, speak, correct?”

A short, jerky nod.

“But you don’t. Slash won’t.”

Another nod.

“Something happened to you. Something bad.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened, but he nodded again, eyes dark. John let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You’re amazing with Jarvis. Fast and always dead on, even without looking.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not seeing a question in that observation. John smiled.

“You’ve...been using it for a long time.”

A pause. Sherlock looked...haunted, to John’s chagrin. He hadn’t wanted to upset his friend.

Sherlock picked Jarvis up, typing so quickly that John actually gasped. It was a moment or so before the little mechanical voice piped up.

**[I stopped speaking when I was about thirteen years old. It was another year before my parents accepted that it could be permanent, and I was given a more basic version of this device. So, yes. About three and a half years.]**

John leaned forward, gazing at the other boy, who returned his stare steadily. “And you haven’t said a word in all that time?”

A head shake, a pleading look.

John raised his hands placatingly. “You’ll never hear me make any demands, luv. I just wanted to know.”

Sherlock frowned, still gazing at John as he typed rapidly. **[You aren’t going to ask what happened?]**

John felt his expression tighten. “If you ever want me to know, you’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s not my business.”

Sherlock looked stunned, and grateful, twisting John’s heart. He had just lifted his textbook, hoping that a detailed explanation of the anatomy of the human heart might help curb the ache he felt to comfort his wounded friend, when Sherlock hit enter on Jarvis once more.

**[John, why does no one else know that you’re gay?]**

He dropped the book, jerking in shock as he stared at his roommate in slight panic. “I--what? I don’t--what do you--”

Sherlock’s eyes had widened almost comically at his response, his fingers flying. **[I am sorry, I did not realize you didn’t know that I knew. I see everything, John, I can read everyone.]**

John sank back on his bed, wrapping his arms defensively around himself. “Seriously? You just...you just see everything about us all?”

Sherlock cocked his head, looking torn between pride and remorse. **[Yes. I observe. You all look but do not see...I see it all.]**

John snorted. “Well, I bet some of these lads are glad you don’t like shouting secrets, then.”

Sherlock smiled weakly, still staring intently at John even as he typed, fingers moving faster than John had ever seen them go. **[Sometimes I still make comments that I shouldn’t.]**

“Don’t we all,” John said dismissively. Then his back stiffened a little. “But--how--why have you not outed me, then?”

The look he got was withering. **[I’m observant, not cruel. I said I thought you knew that I knew. I was aware that no one else did.]**

John let out a noisy breath. “You don’t...care, then?”

A slight frown. **[Why on earth would I?]**

John shrugged weakly. “It makes some blokes uncomfortable. They’d assume I...wanted them, or whatever.”

 **[John, look at the school you attend.]** Sherlock paused, tilting his head as he studied John fiercely. **[John.]** Discarding his textbook, Sherlock stood, carrying Jarvis and crossing the little room to crouch beside John’s bed, leaving him just barely below John’s eye level. Resting Jarvis on his knees, he continued typing. **[You’re my only real friend here, you know.]**

John smiled, hating that he felt himself tear up at those words. “That’s...kind of a big thing to say, Sherlock.”

A slight shrug, fingers still blurring across the keys. **[I thought you knew I was okay with it. I thought you knew that I’m gay, too. You call me ‘luv’ often.]**

John’s eyes snapped wide open, and he yanked back from Sherlock, two out of those three statements making a choked sound of laughter tear from him. Sherlock looked bewildered, but John just clutched a hand to his mouth, almost crying, but still laughing.

“Sherlock,” he said at last. “Do you mean...what I mean to say is, are you--are we--oh, bloody hell, I just--”

Sherlock set Jarvis aside on top of John’s bed, swept his forgotten textbooks to the floor, and leaned up to kiss John softly on the mouth.

It took quite a bit for John’s brain to un-freeze and register what was happening. And then he gasped, grabbing Sherlock’s face between his hands, kissing him back a little too enthusiastically. A bizarre squeak came from the taller boy, the closest to a real sound that he’d ever made. John barely noticed, too busy trying to memorize the shape of those mad lips, the mouth that had starred in every fantasy he’d had since coming to Baker Academy.

Sherlock’s hand was scrabbling across the covers, and John didn’t get the clue until he heard Jarvis speak, the language still perfectly accurate despite Sherlock’s distraction. **[John. John. Can we.]** That seemed to be all that Sherlock could get out, and when John drew back, he saw the pleading and uncertainty in his friend’s eyes. He smiled, petting those incredible high cheekbones soothingly.

“Of course, luv. Whatever you want. What do you want?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, then grinned, his fear seeming to evaporate a little. His hands sped over the keys. **[You, John.]**

And then he set Jarvis on the floor as well, and shoved John onto his back, straddling his waist and gazing down at him with such hunger and hope that John groaned, arching his hips helplessly against the taller boy’s. Sherlock’s face twisted with pleasure, his eyes wide and frightened again, and somehow John understood instantly. His hands tangled into that beautiful dark hair, pulling him down for a messy kiss, tongues sliding and teeth clashing as they explored each other with rough, impatient hands.

“You don’t need to make a sound, or do a thing you don’t want,” he panted. “I’m going to take care of you, alright, luv? I will make it so good for you. And you can just relax and enjoy it. Alright?”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to speak, but his mouth stayed firmly closed. He nodded, eyes bright, and John took his cue. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, he rolled him over on the bed, letting the hitches and gasps in Sherlock’s breathing be his guides.

He stripped them both slowly, lovingly, letting his hands worship Sherlock’s pale, lanky body as it was revealed inch by inch. He did not speak, but he let his eyes and hands tell everything, let Sherlock observe his pleasure and his joy as they touched and kissed and felt each other. Sherlock’s fingers played across his skin like his body was Jarvis, or the violin that he occasionally walked in to hear Sherlock playing flawlessly.

John gave himself over to the feelings, distantly relieved that he’d accepted condoms from one of the more outspoken gay boys in his year--who he suspected had been trying awkwardly to seduce him, but no matter now. He had the supplies he needed, and he made every effort to take Sherlock’s breath away.

* * *

When John woke the next morning, he was alone. There was a folded letter on his bedside table, on top of Jarvis. His breath caught--he had never seen Sherlock without the computer, and something felt so entirely different all of a sudden. Something had changed. He grabbed the paper.

_John,_

_First off, thank you. I have not been able to endure anyone’s touch since I was a child, not for long at least, and what you gave me last night was...more than I had ever dreamed I would find, or be able to bear._

_Secondly...I do want you to understand, but I know I will never have the courage to relive it if I can see the kindness and gentleness and sorrow in your eyes as I tell you. So here it is:_

_I have always been able to observe everything, and when I was young, I naively liked to spout the things that I saw, assuming that everyone else saw them as well. I did not realize that I was making enemies. When I was twelve, an older student at school cornered me after school hours. I never realized that he, in particular, hated me violently for my unnecessary...honesty. He trapped me in an athletic shed. He said terrible things to me; that I should learn to keep my mouth shut. That I was asking to be punished, to be put in my place, and that’s what he intended to do. He put a knife to my throat, told me to be silent, and then raped me, with no preparation or protection. When he finished, he said that if I ever told anyone, he would kill me, slowly and painfully. That I had asked for this, and from now, he expected no trouble from me._

_I think that for the next two years, until I was given an early version of Jarvis, my mind remained frozen in the moment when he ordered me to be silent. I obeyed as though the knife were still pressed to my skin. I have continued to obey, even though I know now--I found out two days ago, in fact--that he was recently convicted of three separate murders, and is serving life in prison. I am safe, for all intents and purposes, but until I lay in your arms last night, I did not realize that I do not want to stay silent. I finally feel...free._

_I apologize if I have overwhelmed you. I will give you the room for as long as you need it; I will be in the practice room with my violin._

  
_Yours,_   
_Sherlock_   


John’s face was streaked with tears long before he dropped the letter onto the bed, throwing his clothes on haphazardly and running from their room. It took him half the usual time to get from the dorms to the musical studies building, flinging himself down the steps to the private rehearsal rooms. Students rarely practiced on weekends, so it wasn’t difficult to track the sound of a solitary violin, playing drowsily on the morning air.

He pushed open the last door, pausing at the sight of his roommate, and lover. Sherlock was facing the window, his violin raised gracefully and arms flexing leisurely as he played. The music was soft and sweet, like a lullaby.

John closed the door with a snap and leaned back against it, watching as Sherlock paused, then resumed playing. He turned where he stood, gazing at John steadily as the music transitioned, turning into something longing, and far too romantic. It made John’s heart squeeze.

He crossed the room on shaky legs, raising his hands to cover Sherlock’s. The notes slid to a halt, and Sherlock waited, not lowering the instrument. John almost smiled.

“That was beautiful,” he told the taller boy quietly. “You are beautiful.” Pulling at Sherlock’s hands until he obligingly lowered them, John leaned up on his toes, letting his lips hover just a breath from Sherlock’s. “And when you are ready to break the silence, I know that your voice will be beautiful, too.”

Those iridescent eyes, swirling with blue and green and silver, brightened happily. Sherlock dipped his face, letting John take the kiss he was looking for, their lips brushing and teasing against one another like long-time lovers, as though they had always had this.

When John drew back, brushing a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead, he stayed quiet, knowing that it was his turn to hold his tongue. He watched the other boy place his violin back in its case before he straightened to face John.

Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose, and opened his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I feel like I do need to mention, yes, the rapist was Jim. Haven't decided if he'll ever make a cameo. I kind of want to write Sherlock visiting the prison. Thoughts?


End file.
